Page 18

Something shifts in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can name it. He steps in and kisses me softly, lingering for a few moments. “Let’s get this outside before someone sends a search party,” he says with a grin.

His hand trails low as he moves past me, giving my ass a squeeze. Then he pulls me in, just for a second, arm snug around my waist like it’s instinct.

I roll my eyes, let out a low laugh, my hand finding his chest out of habit.

Then I grab the tray and follow him out.

The kitchen door swings open, the rush of summer air hits my skin like a reset, and the sound of laughter floods back in, bright and unbothered.

Back outside, Naomi has arrived. And, as always, she’s already commanding the entire garden like it’s her personal stage. “All right, where’s my favourite teenager?!”

Mia’s face lights up the second she hears her. She bounds across the grass—a grin stretched wide across her face and throws herself onto the bench beside Naomi. Her friends flanking her like loyal sidekicks.

Naomi pulls a small, perfectly wrapped box from her bag and hands it over to Mia, who wastes no time tearing through the wrapping paper like it’s the last present she’ll ever receive. There’s a split second of silence. Then…

“SHUT. THE. FRONT. DOOR!”

Sweet mother of God. That child has spent far too much time around my best friend.

She holds up a box of LED strip lights—eyes wide, mouth hanging open. The exact lights all teenagers apparently need to achieve some kind of bedroom aesthetic.

Naomi grins. “Your room’s about to look sick. I expect a full remodel by tomorrow.”

“Oh my God. This is perfect.”

Claire leans in, eyes wide. “Okay, but are you going full Pinterest aesthetic or more gamer-girl vibes?”

Claire’s lived three doors down since she and Mia were in nappies, and they’ve been inseparable ever since—matching Halloween costumes, friendship bracelets, secret codes scribbled in glitter pens.

Their bond is stitched together by a thousand sleepovers and more inside jokes than I can keep up with.

Mia arches a brow, cool and unbothered. “Why not both?”

Naomi snorts. “Smart kid.”

From across the garden, I smile, heart catching in my chest. She’s still mine. Still my little girl. But in moments like this, when she lights up completely without me… I see her becoming someone else.

And I love her for it. Even if it stings a little.

Naomi reaches into her bag again and pulls out a slim, flat package. “This one’s a bit more sentimental,” she says, voice lighter than her eyes.

Mia opens it carefully this time, peeling the paper back at the corners, unfolding it like it might break. She flips it over and freezes.

The print is simple. Elegant.

Bold black lettering that reads: Don’t dream it, be it.

And below that, in delicate script, the lyrics to one of her favourite songs.

Mia’s mouth opens like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out. She just stares at the print, fingers curled tightly around the frame like it might vanish if she lets go.

I glance at Naomi, who isn’t smiling now. Her expression is soft. Grounded. She watches Mia the way only Naomi does, like every version of her matters.

“You made this?” Mia finally breathes.

Naomi nods once. “You told me it was your favourite. Figured it belonged on your wall, not just stuck in your head.”

Mia clutches it to her chest. “I’m never taking this down.”

Naomi just smiles and reaches into the bag for one last gift and hands it to Mia. She opens it slower this time, peeling back the layers like she’s drawing it out on purpose.

Inside is a sleek neon sign, glowing softly in a rich violet, that says Mia’s Zone in looping cursive script, which makes a bedroom feel like its own minor planet. Mia’s jaw drops. “NO WAY.”

Before anyone can blink, she’s throwing her arms around Naomi, tight and fierce, like she means it. Naomi laughs, surprised, but hugs her back without hesitation. “Glad you like it, kiddo.”

I stand back, watch them tangled up in each other’s joy, and something inside me twists. Not painfully. Just enough to remind me how lucky we are.

Naomi doesn’t have to show up the way she does. She doesn’t have to know exactly what Mia loves. But she does, every single time.

I walk over. “You’re kind of amazing,” I say quietly, nudging her shoulder.

She smirks. “I know. I’m basically the best unofficial aunt that ever existed.”

“You really are.”

Naomi glances at me sideways, and something in her expression softens. “Hey, don’t get all misty-eyed on me. You’ll ruin your mascara.”

I snort. “Waterproof.”

“Prepared queen. Love that for you.”

Mia pulls away, beaming, her eyes brighter than I’ve seen them in weeks. “THIS IS THE BEST BIRTHDAY EVER!”

A cheer goes up from the girls on the bench, and one of them starts a half-hearted chant of “Speech! Speech!” that dissolves into laughter.

David steps forward then, placing a hand gently on Mia’s shoulder, his voice light. “All right, who’s ready for cake?”

The girls erupt with a chorus of yeses and enthusiastic clapping.

And for just a moment, everything feels… good. Like, maybe for a few hours, we got it all to work.

The house is quiet now. The quiet that only settles after something good. Something loud and full and fleeting.

The scent of birthday cake still clings to the air, tangled with smoke and the faint sharpness of Prosecco. Crumpled wrapping paper spills out of bags near the back door. Plates crowd the sink. Empty glasses line the worktop where they’ve been abandoned. The place is a mess, but it’s the best kind.

Proof that people were here. That something was celebrated.

I move through it slowly, barefoot, the hem of my dress brushing my knees as I gather plates, stack glasses, throw napkins into the bin without really seeing them.

There’s a shift in the air, then. That instinctive prickle at the base of my neck, the kind that tells you someone’s behind you before a single sound gives them away.

I don’t turn. Just keep rinsing the plate in my hands, water running hot and steady, steam curling up into my face.

Then I glance over my shoulder.

David’s in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame like he’s been there a while. Shirt wrinkled, collar open, a strand of hair has fallen across his forehead, softening the usual sharpness. Like he’s shrugged off the polished host and let something real breathe through the cracks.

There’s a smirk at the corner of his mouth, faint and unreadable. He says nothing.

“You left me to clean all this on my own?” I ask, aiming for playful.

He hums, stepping in. “Just giving you a head start.”

The scent of whiskey follows him in, subtle but sharp enough to catch. It hangs between us like smoke.

Then he steps in behind me, his hands sliding around my waist like muscle memory.

“You were amazing today,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Everything was perfect.”

His hands drift lower, fingers slipping beneath the hem of my dress. They skim the backs of my thighs, light at first, then bolder, more certain. He palms the curve of my ass through the lace, and a low sound hums in his throat. Part appreciation, part possession.

I know this script. The nights soaked in whiskey and want.

“You looked incredible,” he adds, his mouth grazing skin.

A chill prickles across my arms.

I grip the edge of the sink, grounding myself. My heart stutters against my ribs. “David…” My voice is thin, tight.

Before I can think, he moves and lifts me onto the worktop like it costs him nothing. The cool marble kisses the backs of my thighs, and my dress rides up around my waist, leaving only the lace of my thong between us.

He kisses below my ear, hand sliding to my thigh. The hem of my dress hikes higher under his fingers, and my pulse kicks, sharp and wrong.

“I need you,” he breathes, lips ghosting over mine, and the words wrap around me like vines.

I should stop this.

Because when he’s whiskey warm, and his eyes are a little darker—sex stops feeling like love. It’s a transaction.

And I know how it ends. The heat, the high, the hollow ache that follows.

And still—I open my legs for him and lean into it. Searching for something that feels like closeness, even if it’s only skin-deep. Because somewhere underneath it all, I miss how it used to feel when love wasn’t something I had to reach for.

His fingers tangle in my hair, tugging my head back so his mouth can drag down the line of my throat, teeth grazing, tongue chasing the sting.

He groans low against my skin, hips pressing between mine, his arousal obvious even through the layers. “You feel that?” he mutters, voice thick. “This is what you do to me, Ellie. I’ve been waiting all fucking day.”

Then his hand shifts, grazing further up my thigh—warm, certain, searching.

His eyes meet mine, and he pauses. And when he finds no hesitation, his fingers slip beneath the lace and press inside me. “Fuuuuck, Ellie.”

A shudder rolls through me as his fingers curl, and my grip tightens on his shoulders, head falling back, breath catching in my throat.

“Oh my god. David…”

He silences me with a kiss, then his hands move fast and mechanical.

The zip of my dress, the unclasp of my bra, the cool air kissing skin as the fabric slips away.

He palms my breasts like he’s starved, thumbs flicking over the peaks before he rolls one between his fingers, then pinches hard enough to make me gasp.

“You love this,” he mutters, tongue flicking over my nipple before biting down sharply.

My breath stutters. Nails curling into his back as he presses harder—deeper.

He only pauses long enough to yank my thong down, the lace a brief afterthought before it hits the floor. Then the buckle of his belt, the low rasp of denim, the sound of foil tearing in the silence.

And I should tell him to slow down. To breathe. To see me. But I don’t. Because right now, I want this too. I want to be wanted.

He strokes himself once, watching me, his gaze sharp and hungry. “You gonna take this?”

I nod, my thighs tense.

Then he grips my hips and thrusts into me in one unrelenting stroke.

I gasp, back arching, body stretching to take every inch of him.

“Fuck,” he groans, fingers digging into my thighs as he moves, deep, fast, relentless. Like he’s burning through something only I can extinguish.

I cling to his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric, searching for something solid to hold on to as he drives into me again and again. His body is feverish against mine, skin damp, hips snapping with brutal precision. The stretch is sharp, the friction rough.

David is everywhere, his breath hot and ragged against my cheek, his voice low and filthy in my ear, his hands dragging me closer, spreading me wider.

“You like this,” he growls, fucking me harder. “You love it when I take you like this. When I fuck you like I own you.”

A moan breaks loose from my throat, raw and involuntary, caught somewhere between want and shame.

And he’s right. In this moment, I want to be his. I need this just as much as he does. To disappear beneath someone else’s need.

Tonight, I let him take. And I take back . Touch for touch. Thrust for thrust.

We fall into a rhythm that’s fast and filthy.

He groans into my skin, voice rough, almost desperate. We fuck like we’re both trying to forget something.

My breath stutters, chest tight, skin prickling with heat. I shift, trying to find that one perfect angle, that friction I need. “Wait—David. Shit—I’m so close?—”

He grunts, adjusting, but not enough. Not where it counts. Already chasing his own finish line.

I bite my lip and wrap my legs tighter, desperate to drag myself over the edge. My body is right there—coiled and trembling, screaming for release. That low, urgent pulse building, begging, clawing its way up my spine.

But it slips again.

Too fast. Too shallow. Too out of sync.

I grind against him, breath caught in my throat. “David—fuck. Just, hold it there.”

He moans my name, hips stuttering as he comes.

Too late.

It’s over.

He leans in. Presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, like a period at the end of a sentence.

He pulls out with a grunt, breath ragged. Straightens. Re-buttons.

And I sit there, dress bunched at my waist, skin cooling, letting the quiet settle into my bones.